“I used to get so homesick for it, in China,” she volunteered; “my great-great-grandfather built it on the ruins of an older place of ours which had burned.” * * * * * An old stableman hobbled up to take the reins. We went in past an elderly parlor maid who had opened the door, and I instantly succumbed to the perfection of the sunshiny hall, with its floor of black and white marble, and the square, paneled rooms opening off on either side of it. “We’ve had tea in the garden every afternoon, it has been such a beautiful, open autumn. But perhaps you’d prefer having it in the house?” suggested my friend. “I’d much rather have it in the garden,” I agreed, reluctantly detaching my attention from the Adam mantelpiece and turning to examine the carved corners of the old wall panels. The rooms were veritable museums of rare and beautiful furnishings; they showed a finished perfection of detail, from the wax candles in the crystal chandeliers to the faded needle-point upholstering on the Chippendale chair seats. “Just think of the generations of discriminating people whose taste is represented in your home! Didn’t any of them ever make mistakes and buy black walnut horrors?” I cried, and added, “What a magnificent heritage to hand down, unspoiled, to your children!” She did not answer. I turned and found her staring down at the sturdy carving on a superb oak bench. “My great-great-great-great-grandfather’s favorite seat,” she explained, rousing herself. “He sailed with Drake ... and was a firm believer in the unalterable greatness of England, and England’s future ... as I am a believer in it!” She paused. “But sometimes I wonder ... what will become of our household gods....” “_Become of them?_” I cried. She interrupted me. “Must you really go back to London this afternoon?” she asked, and at my reluctant affirmative continued, “I’ve ordered tea early for that reason. Shall we go out into the garden?... Ah, Daphne!” I turned to greet the daughter of the house as she came down the stairs, and drew a deep breath of pleasure. She had been a pretty girl, but now she was even lovelier, and while the contrast between her soft dress and lace hat and her mother’s severely plain attire was striking, I felt thankful that, in war-weary England, Beauty was encouraged. “Daphne--and grown up!” I greeted her. She smiled. “Were you at my wedding?” she asked. “Why, no! I didn’t even know that you had been married,” I commented. Her mother interposed: “We hadn’t time to look up addresses or have invitations engraved. George’s leave was so short.” Daphne was not listening; now, she interrupted, “Tea--so soon? In the garden?” And without waiting for an answer glanced at the shabby volume still clasped in my hand. “Book? Any pictures?” she asked. I smiled. “You haven’t grown up at all!” I told her, and added, “Ruskin’s essays--without illustrations!” * * * * *